Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83908 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83908 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
I frown, not sure who would be coming over, and hoping it’s not an overeager fan. It’s only happened twice, and luckily, both times they were harmless. Some of the other guys live in gated communities, but I love my house and don’t want to move. Plus, while I can’t pretend I don’t like being famous, I also want to live as normal a life as possible.
I make my way back through the house, getting side-eyed by Pucky. I look through the peephole and… What the fuck? My heart races while confusion twists up my gut. I tug the door open. “Harry?” What is he doing in LA? More importantly, how in the fuck does he know where I live?
“That’s enough of that Mister Innocent act. You know my name isn’t Harry.” He pushes around me and comes into my house like he owns the place. Maybe I should be annoyed, but for a reason I can’t understand, I find his outburst cute.
I close the door behind him. “Well, yeah. I knew, but—”
“Aha! So you admit it? At least you’re not gonna try and lie your way out of it.” He keeps moving into my living room, and I have no real choice except to follow him like he’s calling the shots here. I might be slightly—or a lot—confused on how the fuck he found me, but part of me is glad he did. If he’s here, then maybe I can test out his cock again to see if it gives me back my hockey superpowers.
“You’ll have to backtrack like five or maybe even a hundred steps here, Harry. I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But then it hits me that he must have known who I am the whole time. How else would he be here?
“You tricked me!” we both say at the same time, then blanch. “I didn’t trick you,” I tell him. “You tricked me.”
“Why would I trick you?” He crosses his arms.
I do the same. “Because I’m kind of a big deal.”
He rolls his eyes so hard, I’m surprised they don’t fall out of his head. “Ugh. You’re so cocky.”
“You’ve seen what I’m packing.” I grin because well, we both know it’s true.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Oh my God. What did I see in you?”
“My hard pecs? You seemed especially fixated on those.”
I’m fairly certain I notice a flash of heat in his gaze before he covers it. “We’re getting off-track here. Did you get off on it?”
I feel like I’ve missed a step. He knows I got off because he swallowed my load. It’s clear in the way he crosses and uncrosses his arms, how he wrings his hands, and how he can’t stay still that he’s upset, and that’s the last thing I want. Does he regret what we did? It would kill me if that’s the case. I don’t ever want anyone to regret being with me. “Listen, I’m totally lost here. You’re going to have to help me catch up. It’s obvious your name isn’t Harry, but that’s all I got. Did I…hurt you?” I don’t see how that’s possible, but it’s important to me to be sure.
He cocks his head, his gaze on me. He’s studying me, searching for something, but it’s just one more item on the list of things I don’t know in this conversation.
“Oh God. You really don’t know, do you?”
Pucky jumps off the couch and walks away, clearly over us. “No clue.”
“Okay, well, this was fun. I should go.”
Wait. What? Harry tries to walk away, but I step in front of him, arms up so he knows I’m not trying to force him to do anything, but I really am curious what’s going on. “What are you doing here?”
“I live in LA.”
“I mean my house, smart-ass.”
“Hey, I’m not the smart-ass between us, Mister You’ve-Seen-What-I’m-Packing. Ugh.”
He’s got me there. I chuckle. “I was only speaking the truth, but I’m not worried about that. Who are you?” Because it’s clear that’s an issue for him. He thinks I tricked him in some way because of who he is. “Before that night in Seattle, I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
Harry—I’m really getting sick of calling him that—runs a hand through his hair and paces my living room. “How did this happen?”
“If I knew what this is, I might be able to help.”
He ignores me, talking to himself. “Because of course, the one time I decide to hook up with a hot guy, he has to have been there for the worst night of my life.”
I force myself not to focus on the hot-guy part while I try putting together the pieces of what he’s saying. I was there for the worst night of his life? None of this is making any sense.
“I can’t even have no-strings-attached sex right. I can’t breathe. Holy shit. Can you breathe? Why can’t I breathe?”